A  BOOKOF  MUSIC 


UC-NRLF 


311 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 
MCMVI 


CH'D  WHITTEMORE 
Ror<?  Books 


A  BOOK  OF  MUSIC 


K. 


THE  NEW  DAY 

THE  CELESTIAL  PASSION 

LYRICS 

TWO  WORLDS 

THE  GREAT  REMEMBRANCE 

THI    JLBOV*    1XSO    IK    OKI   TOLrMl    K5TITLKD 

FIVE  BOOKS  OF  SONG 
IN  PALESTINE  AND  OTHER  POEMS 
POEMS  AND  INSCRIPTIONS 
"IN  THE  HEIGHTS" 

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FOR  THE  COUNTRY 

A  CHRISTMAS  WREATH 

A  BOOK  OF  MUSIC 


A  BOOK  OF  MUSIC 


BY 


RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

MCMVI 


Copyright,  1875, 1894, 1905, 1906,  by  RICHARD  WATSON  GILDER 

Copyright,  1905,  1906,  CHARLES  SCRIBNEB'S  SONB 

Copyright,  1906,  HOUOHTON,  MIKKUN  AJJD  COMFAJTT 

All  rights  reserved 

Published,  October,  1906 


THE    DE  VINNE    PRESS 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PRELUDE    3 

Music  AND  WORDS 9 

LISTENING  TO  Music  (Rubinstein's  "Ocean  Symphony";   From 

"  The  New  Day  ") 12 

"  BECAUSE  THE  ROSE  MUST  FADE  " 13 

ILL  TIDINGS  (The  Studio  Concert)    , 16 

LIFE  AND  DEATH  (From  "Non  Sine  Dolore") 18 

ESSIPOFF ,,20 

"To-NlGHT  THE  MUSIC  DOTH  A  BURDEN  BEAR" 22 

ADELE  Aus  DER  OHE 23 

Music  AND  FRIENDSHIP 26 

THE  STAIRWAY  (M.  K.  W.) 27 

THE  VIOLIN  (From  "The  New  Day") 28 

HANDEL'S  LARGO 30 

PADEREWSKI 32 

THE  'CELLO 36 

A  MEMORY  OF  RUBINSTEIN     .    .    , 38 

v 


M327139 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"THE  PATHETIC  SYMPHONY";  (Tschaikovsky)  ....  39 

AN  HOUR  IN  A  STUDIO,  Singing  of  the  Plainsmen,  (F.  Lungren)     40 
THE  UNKNOWN  SINGER     .    .    . 

THE  VOICE .... 

WAGNER 

"  MOTHER  OF  HEROES"   (Sarah  Blake  Shaw) 

BEETHOVEN  (Vienna— 1900) 
THE  ANGER  OF  BEETHOVEN  .    . 

MACDOWELL ! 

A  MOOD 

Music  IN  SOLITUDE 

Music  AT  TWILIGHT " 

Music  IN  MOONLIGHT 

Music  IN  DARKNESS  (Adele  Aus  der  Ohe)         67 

COVER   DESIGN   BY   ALICE  R.  GLENNY 


A  BOOK  OF  MUSIC 


^\ 


PRELUDE 

WITHOUT  intent,  I  find  a  book  I  've  writ 
And  music  is  the  pleasant  theme  of  it ; 
For  though  1  can  no  music  make,  I  trust 
Here  's  proof  I  love  it. 

Though  no  reasoning  fine 
Should  any  ask  to  show  this  art  divine, 
Yet  have  I  known  even  poets  who  refuse 
To  name  pure  music  as  an  equal  muse. 
If  music  pleased  them,  't  was  not  deeply  felt, 
And  in  its  charms  they  deemed  it  shame  to  melt ; 
For  that,  they  held,  it  is  an  art  where  might 

3 


1 J4-.  PRELUDE 

'  Even  children  give  its  votaries  delight, 
And  therefore  lacking  in  the  things  of  mind. 
But  't  is  not  argued  well.     There  is  a  kind 
Of  music  that  a  little  child  can  give, 
Echoing  great  masters ;  but  the  masters  live 
Not  in  such  echo— elfish,  immature  ; 
'  T  is  but  a  part  of  them.     Ah,  be  ye  sure 
Though  lovely,  not  the  loveliest ;  that  must  wait 
For  him  who  noble  moods  can  recreate 
With  solemn,  subtle,  and  deep-thoughted  art 
That  wins  the  mind  or  ere  it  takes  the  heart. 
For  that  a  child  may  gracious  music  make 
Is  but  a  sign  that  music  doth  partake 
Of  something  deep,  primeval,  that  began 
When  God  dreamed  of  himself  ,  and  fashioned  man. 
'  T  is  near  the  source  of  being ;  it  repeats 


PRELUDE 

The  vibrancy  that  runs  in  rhythmic  beats 
Through  all  the  shaken  universe ;  and  though 
Its  language  shall  take  not  the  ebb  and  flow 
Of  speech  articulate,  it  is  that  tone 
Cleaves  closer  to  life's  core ;  the  thing  alone 
Well-nigh  it  is,  not  thought  about  the  thing; 
No  pictured  flight  across  a  painted  sky,— 
The  bird  itself,  the  beating  of  its  wing ; 
The  pang  that  is  a  cry ; 
Not  human  language,  but  pure  ecstasy. 

In  this  my  BOOK  OF  MUSIC  which  hath  come 
As  doth  a  lover's  litany  by  some 
Miraculous  chance,  with  added  song  to  song, 
I  trust  I  have  my  Lady  done  no  wrong, — 
My  Lady  of  Melody  I  worshiped  long. 


6  PRELUDE 

Blameless  the  artist  praises  the  sweet  rose 
If  in  his  art  he  aim  not  to  compose 
An  image,  all  inanimate,  that  seeks 
To  copy  shrewdly  those  inviolate  cheeks 
Or  the  rich,  natural  odor  imitate ; 
But  shows,  as  best  he  can,  its  grace  and  state, 
The  love  that  in  him  burns  for  this  fair  flower, 
And  all  his  joy  therein,  for  one  brief  hour. 
Nor  shall  the  poet  subtly  strive  to  phrase 
For  any  heart  save  his  what  music  says  ; 
For,— as  before  the  autumn  skies  and  woods,— 
A  meaning  gleams  through  our  own  human  moods : 
Yet  is  the  meaning  real ;  and  many  a  wound 
Wherewith  our  spirits  are  beaten  to  the  ground 
Heals  'neath  the  sanctity  of  noble  sound. 


PRELUDE  7 

Ah,  not  to  match  the  music  of  the  wires 
Or  trembling  breath,  the  instruments  and  choirs, 
But  to  teirtruly  how  that  moves  the  soul 
In  the  impassionate  and  rhythmic  word. 
By  poesy's  proper  art,— which  must  be  heard 
Even  as  music  is!    Not  to  forget 
The  viol  and  the  harp,  the  clarinet, 
The  booming  organ ;  too,  the  intertwined 
Voices  wherewith  the  sounding,  rich  clavier 
Under  the  master's  hand  enchants  the  ear,  — 
If  so  may  be  to  catch  a  fleeting  strain 
And  in  new  art  imprison  it  again ! 
Then  let  him  list  to  music  who  would  rhyme ; 
For  every  art,  though  separate,  may  learn, 
From  the  great  souls  in  all,  how  to  make  burn 


8  PRELUDE 

Brighter  the  light  of  beauty  through  all  time. 
And  scorn  not  thou  to  read  of  music's  power 
Over  one  soul  that  in  great  humbleness 
His  memory  brings  of  many  a  happy  hour, 
Hoping  these  echoed  tones  some  wounded  heart  may 
bless. 


MUSIC  AND  WORDS 

I 

THIS  day  I  heard  such  music  that  I  thought : 
Hath  human  speech  the  power  thus  to  be 

wrought, 

Into  such  melody,— pure,  sensuous  sound,— 
Into  such  mellow,  murmuring  mazes  caught ; 
Can  words   (I  said),  when  these  keen  tones  are 

bound 

(Silent,  except  in  memory  of  this  hour)  — 
Can  human  words  alone  usurp  the  power 
Of  trembling  strings  that  thrill  to  the  very  soul, 
And  of  this  ecstasy  bring  back  the  whole  ? 


10  MUSIC  AND  WORDS 

II 

Ah  no,  ('t  was  answered  in  my  inmost  heart,) 
Unto  itself  sufficient  is  each  art, 
And  each  doth  utter  what  none  other  can— 
Some  hidden  mood  of  the  large  soul  of  man. 
Ah,  think  not  thou  with  words  well  interweaved 
To  wake  the  tones  wherein  the  viol  grieved 
With  its  most  heavy  burden;  think  not  thou, 
Adventurous,  to  push  thy  shallop's  prow 
Into  that  surge  of  well-remembered  tones, 
Striving  to  match  each  wandering  wind  that 

moans, 

Each  bell  that  tolls,  and  every  bugle's  blowing 
With  some  most  fitting  word,  some  verse  bestow 
ing 


MUSIC  AND  WORDS  11 

A  never-shifting  form  on  that  which  passed 
Swift  as  a  bird  that  glimmers  down  the  blast. 

Ill 

So,  still  unworded,  save  in  memory  mute, 
Rest  thou  sweet  hour  of  viol  and  of  lute  ; 
Of  thoughts  that  never,  never  can  be  spoken, 
Too  frail  for  the  rough  usage  of  men's  words- 
Thoughts  that  shall  keep  their  silence  all 

unbroken  , 

Till  music  once  more  stirs  them  ;— then  like  birds 
That  in  the  night-time  slumber,  they  shall  wake, 
While  all  the  leaves  of  all  the  forest  shake. 
Oh,  hark,  I  hear  it  now,  that  tender  strain 
Fulfilled  with  all  of  sorrow  save  its  pain. 


LISTENING  TO  MUSIC 

(RUBINSTEIN'S  "OCEAN  SYMPHONY;"  FROM  "THE  NEW  DAY") 

WHEN  on  that  joyful  sea 
Where  billow  on  billow  breaks ;  where 
swift  waves  follow 
Waves,  and  hollow  calls  to  hollow ; 
Where  sea-birds  swirl  and  swing, 
And  winds  through  the  rigging  shrill  and  sing  : 
Where  night  is  one  vast  starless  shade  ; 
Where  thy  soul  not  afraid, 
Though  all  alone  unlonely, 
Wanders  and  wavers,  wavers  wandering ; 
On  that  accursed  sea 
One  moment  only, 

Forget  one  moment,  Love,  thy  fierce  content ; 
Back,  let  thy  soul  be  bent,— 
Think  back,  dear  Love  ;  0  Love,  think  back  to  me. 

12 


"BECAUSE  THE  ROSE  MUST  FADE" 


BECAUSE  the  rose  must  fade, 
Shall  I  not  love  the  rose  ? 
Because  the  summer  shade 

Passes  when  winter  blows, 
Shall  I  not  rest  me  there 
In  the  cool  air? 

II 

Because  the  sunset  sky 
Makes  music  in  my  soul, 

13 


14  "  BECAUSE  THE  ROSE  MUST  FADE  " 

Only  to  fail  and  die, 

Shall  I  not  take  the  whole 
Of  beauty  that  it  gives 
While  yet  it  lives? 

in 
Because  the  sweet  of  youth 

Doth  vanish  all  too  soon 
Shall  I  forget,  forsooth, 

To  learn  its  lingering  tune  ; 
My  joy  to  memorize 
In  those  young  eyes  ? 

IV 

If,  like  the  summer  flower 
That  blooms,— a  fragrant  death, 


15 

Keen  music  hath  no  power 
To  live  beyond  its  breath, 
Then  of  this  flood  of  song 
Let  me  drink  long  ! 

V 
Ah,  yes,  because  the  rose 

Doth  fade  like  sunset  skies  ; 
Because  rude  winter  blows 

All  bare,  and  music  dies— 
Therefore,  now  is  to  me 
Eternity  ! 


ILL  TIDINGS 

(THE  STUDIO  CONCERT) 

IN  the  long  studio  from  whose  towering  walls 
Calm  Pheidias  beams,  and  Angelo  appalls, 
Eager  the  listening,  downcast  faces  throng 
While  violins  their  piercing  tones  prolong. 
At  times  I  know  not  if  I  see,  or  hear, 
Yon  statue's  smile,  or  some  not  sorrowing  tear 
Down-falling  on  the  surface  of  the  stream 
That  music  pours  across  my  waking  dream. 
Ah,  is  it  then  a  dream  that  while  repeat 
Those  chords,  like  strokes  of  silver-shod  light 
feet, 


16 


ILL  TIDINGS  17 

And  the  great  Master's  music  marches  on — 
I  hear  the  horses  of  the  Parthenon? 

But  all  to-day  seems  vague,  unreal,  far, 
With  fear  and  discord  in  the  dearest  strain, 
For  'neath  yon  slowly-sinking  western  star 
One  that  I  love  lies  on  her  bed  of  pain. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH 

(FROM  "NON  SINE  DOLORE") 

WHAT,  then,  is  Life,— what  Death? 
Thus  the  Answerer  saith  ; 
O  faithless  mortal,  bend  thy  head  and  listen  : 

Down  o'er  the  vibrant  strings, 

That  thrill,  and  moan  and  mourn,  and  glisten, 

The  Master  draws  his  bow. 

A  voiceless  pause  ;  then  upward,  see,  it  springs, 

Free  as  a  bird  with  disimprisoned  wings  ! 

13 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  19 

In  twain  the  chord  was  cloven, 

While,  shaken  with  woe, 

With  breaks  of  instant  joy  all  interwoven, 

Piercing  the  heart  with  lyric  knife, 

On,  on  the  ceaseless  music  sings, 

Restless,  intense,  serene  :— 

Life  is  the  downward  stroke  ;  the  upward,  Life  ; 

Death  but  the  pause  between. 


ESSIPOFP 

I 

WHAT  is  her  playing  like? 
I  ask — while  dreaming  here   under  her 

music's  power. 

'T  is  like  the  leaves  of  the  dark  passion-flower 
Which  grows  on  a  strong  vine  whose  roots,  oh, 

deep  they  sink, 

Deep  in    the  ground,  that  flower's  pure  life  to 
drink. 

20 


ESSIPOFF  21 

II 

What  is  her  playing  like? 
'T  is  like  a  bird 

Who,  singing  in  a  wild-wood,  never  knows 
That  its  lone  melody  is  heard 
By  wandering  mortal,  who  forgets  his  heavy 
woes. 


"TO-NIGHT  THE  MUSIC  DOTH 
A  BURDEN  BEAR" 

TO-NIGHT  the  music  doth  a  burden  bear  — 
One  word  that  moans  and  murmurs  :  doth 

exhale 

Tremulously  as  perfume  on  the  air 
From  out  a  rose  blood-red,  or  lily  pale. 
The  burden  is  thy  name,  dear  soul  of  me, 
Which  the  rapt  melodist  unknowing  all 
Still  doth  repeat  through  fugue  and  reverie  ; 
Thy  name,  to  him  unknown,  to  me  doth  call, 
And  weeps  my  heart  at  every  music-fall. 


W 


ADELE  AUS  DER  OHE 

(LISZT) 

I 

HAT  is  her  playing  like? 


'T  is  like  the  wind  in  wintry  northern 
valleys  : 

A  dream-pause  ;  then  it  rallies 
And  once  more  bends  the  pine-tops,  shatters 
The  ice-crags,  whitely  scatters 
The  spray  along  the  paths  of  avalanches, 
Startles  the  blood,  and  every  visage  blanches. 


24  ADELE  AUS  DER  OHE 

II 

Half-sleeps  the  wind  above  a  swirling  pool 
That  holds  the  trembling  shadow  of  the  trees  ; 
Where  waves  too  wildly  rush  to  freeze 
Though  all  the  air  is  cool ; 
And  hear,  oh  hear,  while  musically  call 
With  nearer  tinkling  sounds,  or  distant  roar, 
Voices  of  fall  on  fall  ; 

And  now  a  swelling  blast,  that  dies ;  and  now— 
no  more,  no  more. 

(CHOPIN) 

I 

AH,  what  celestial  art  ! 

And  can  sweet  thoughts  become  pure  tone  and 
float, 


ADELE  AUS  DER  OHE  25 

All  music,  into  the  tranced  mind  and  heart ! 
Her  hand  scarce  stirs  the  singing,  wiry  metal— 
Hear  from  the  wild-rose  fall  each  perfect  petal ! 

II 

And  can  we  have,  on  earth,  of  heaven  the  whole  ! 
Heard   thoughts— the  soul   of  inexpressible 

thought ; 
Roses  of  sound 
That   strew   melodious   leaves   upon   the    silent 

ground ; 

And  music  that  is  music's  very  soul, 
Without  one  touch  of  earth,— 
Too  tender,  even,  for  sorro      and  too  bright  for 

mirth  ! 


MUSIC  AND  FRIENDSHIP 

THRICE  is  sweet  music  sweet  when  every 
word 

And  lovely  tone  by  kindred  hearts  are  heard  ; 
So  when  I  hear  true  music,  Heaven  send, 
To  share  that  heavenly  joy,  one  dear,  dear  friend! 


THE  STAIRWAY 

BY  this  stairway  narrow,  steep, 
Thou  shalt  climb  from  song  to  sleep  ; 
From  sleep  to  dream  and  song  once  more  ;— 
Sleep  well,  sweet  friend,  sleep  well,  dream  deep  ! 


27 


THE  VIOLIN 

(FROM  "  THE  NEW  DAY  ") 

BEFORE   the    listening  world    behold    him 
stand  ; 

The  warm  air  trembles  with  his  passionate  play  ; 
Their  cheers  shower  round  him  like  the  ocean 

spray 

Round  one  who  waits  upon  the  stormy  strand. 
Their  smiles,  sighs,  tears  all  are  at  his  command  ; 
And  now  they  hear  the  trump  of  judgment-day, 
And  now  one  silver  note  to  heaven  doth  stray 
And  fluttering  fall  upon  the  golden  sand. 


THE  VIOLIN  29 

But  like  the  murmur  of  the  distant  sea 
Their  loud  applause,  and  far  off,  faint,  and  weak 
Sounds  his  own  music  to  him,  wild  and  free— 

Far  from  the  soul  of  music  that  doth  speak 
In  wordless  wail  and  lyric  ecstasy 
From  that  good  viol  pressed  against  his  cheek. 


HANDEL'S  LARGO 

WHEN  the  great  organs,  answering  each  to 
each, 

Joined  with  the  violin's  celestial  speech, 
Then  did  it  seem  that  all  the  heavenly  host 
Gave  praise  to  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost : 
We  saw  the  archangels  through  the  ether  wing 
ing  ; 

We  heard  their  souls  go  forth  in  solemn  singing ; 
"  Praise,  praise  to  God,"  they  sang,  "  through 
endless  days; 


HANDEL'S  LARGO  31 

Praise  to  the  Eternal  One,  and  nought  but 

praise ; " 

And  as  they  sang  the  spirits  of  the  dying 
Were  upward  borne  from  lips  that  ceased  their 

sighing ; 

And  dying  was  not  death,  but  deeper  living— 
Living,  and   prayer,  and   praising   and  thanks 
giving  ! 


PADEREWSKI 

IF  songs  were  perfume,  color,  wild  desire  ; 
If  poet's  words  were  fire 

That  burned  to  blood  in  purple-pulsing  veins  ; 
If  with  a  bird-like  thrill  the  moments  throbbed 

to  hours ; 
If  summer's  rains 
Turned    drop    by    drop   to    shy,   sweet,   maiden 

flowers ; 

If  God  made  flowers  with  light  and  music  in  them, 
And  saddened  hearts  could  win  them  ; 

32 


PADEREWSKI  33 

If  loosened  petals  touched  the  ground 
With  a  caressing  sound  ; 

If  love's  eyes  uttered  word 
No  listening  lover  e'er  before  had  heard  ; 
If  silent  thoughts  spake  with  a  bugle's  voice  ; 
If  flame  passed  into  song  and  cried,  "Rejoice  ! 

Rejoice  ! " 
If  words  could  picture  life's,  hope's,  heaven's 

eclipse 
When  the  last  kiss  has  fallen  on  dying  eyes  and 

lips; 

If  all  of  mortal  woe 

Struck  on  one  heart  with  breathless  blow  on  blow  ; 
If  melody  were  tears,  and  tears  were  starry 

gleams 
That  shone  in  evening's  amethystine  dreams  ; 


34  PADEREWSKI 

Ah,  yes,  if  notes  were  stars,  each  star  a  different 

hue, 

Trembling  to  earth  in  dew ; 
Or  if  the  boreal  pulsings,  rose  and  white, 
Made  a  majestic  music  in  the  night ; 
If  all  the  orbs  lost  in  the  light  of  day 
In  the  deep,  silent  blue  began  their  harps  to  play  ; 
And  when  in  frightening  skies  the  lightnings 

flashed 

And  storm-clouds  crashed, 
If  every  stroke  of  light  and  sound  were  but  excess 

of  beauty ; 

If  human  syllables  could  quick  refashion 
That  fierce  electric  passion  ; 

If  other  art  could  match  (as  were  the  poet's  duty) 
The  grieving,  and  the  rapture,  and  the  thunder 


PADEREWSKI  35 

Of  that  keen  hour  of  wonder,— 

That  light  as  if  of  heaven,  that  blackness  as  of 

hell,- 
How  the  great  master  played  then  might  I  dare 

to  tell. 

II 

How  the  great  master  played  !     And  was  it  he 
Or  some  disbodied  spirit  which  had  rushed 
From  silence  into  singing  ;  and  had  crushed 
Into  one  startled  hour  a  life's  felicity, 
And  highest  bliss  of  knowledge — that  all  life, 

grief,  wrong, 
Turn  at  the  last  to  beauty  and  to  song  ! 


THE    'CELLO 

WHEN  last  I  heard  the  trembling  'cello  play, 
In  every  face  I  saw  sad  memories 
That  from  dark,  secret  chambers  where  they  lay 
Rose  and  looked  forth  from  melancholy  eyes. 
So  every  mournful  thought  found  there  a  tone 
To  match  despondence ;  sorrow  knew  its  mate  ; 
111   fortune   sighed,   and    mute    despair    made 

moan; 

And  one  deep  chord  gave  answer,  "  Late,— too 
late!" 


THE   'CELLO  37 

Then    ceased    the   quivering    strain,    and    swift 

returned 

Unto  its  depths  the  secret  of  each  heart ; 
Each  face  took  on  its  mask,  where  lately  burned 
A  spirit  charmed  to  sight  by  music's  art ; 
But  unto  one  who  caught  that  inner  flame 
No  face  of  all  can  ever  seem  the  same. 


A  MEMORY  OF  RUBINSTEIN 

HE  of  the  ocean  is,  its  thunderous  waves 
Echo  his  music ;  while  far  down  the  shore 
Mad  laughter  hurries— a  white,  blowing  spume. 
I  hear  again  in  memory  that  wild  storm ; 
The  winds  of  heaven  go  rushing  round  the  world, 
And  broods  above  the  rage  one  sphinx-like  face. 


"THE   PATHETIC   SYMPHONY" 

(TSCHAIKOVSKY) 

WHEN  the  last  movement  fell,  I  thought : 
Ah  me! 

Death  this  indeed;  but  still  the  music  poured 
On  and  still  on.     Oh,  deathlier  it  grew 
And  then,  at  last,  my  beating  heart  stood  still,— 
Beyond  all  natural  grief  the  music  passing, 
Beyond  all  tragedy,  or  last  farewell. 
Then,  on  that  fatal  tide,  dismayed  I  felt 
This  living  soul,  my  own,  without  one  tear, 
Slowly,  irrevocably,  and  alone, 
Enter  the  ultimate  silence  and  the  dark. 


AN  HOUR  IN  A  STUDIO 

(SINGING  OF  THE  PLAINSMEN) 

EACH  picture  was  a  painted  memory 
Of  the  far  plains  he  loved,  and  of  their  life, 
Weird,  mystical,  dark,  inarticulate,— 
And  cities  hidden  high  against  the  blue, 
Whose  sky-hung  steps  one  Indian  could  guard. 
The  enchanted  Mesa  there  its  fated  wall 
Lifted,  and  all  its  story  lived  again  ; 
How,  in  the  happy  planting  time,  the  strong 
Went  down  to  push  the  seeds  into  the  sand, 
Leaving  the  old  and  sick.     Then  reeled  the  world 

40 


AN  HOUR  IN  A  STUDIO  41 

And  toppled  to  the  plain  the  perilous  path. 
Death  climbed  another  way  to  them  who  stayed. 
He  showed  us  pictured  thirst,  a  dreadful  sight ; 
And  many  tales  he  told  that  might  have  come,— 
Brought  by  some  planet- wanderer,— fresh  from 

Mars, 
Or  from  the  silver  deserts  of  the  moon. 

But  I  remember  better  than  all  else 
One  night  he  told  of  in  that  land  of  f right,  - 
The  love-songs  swarthy  men  sang  to  their  herds 
On  the  high  plains  to  keep  the  beasts  in  heart ; 
Piercing  the  silence  one  keen  tenor  voice 
Singing  "  Ai  nostri  monti  "  clear  and  high  : 
Instead  of  stakes  and  fences  round  about 
They  circled  them  with  music  in  the  night. 


THE  UNKNOWN  SINGER 

ONE  singer  in  the  oratorio, 
Her  only  did  I  see,  nor  can  forget ; 
Nor  knew  her  name,  nor  have  I  seen  her  more, 
Nor  could  I  in  the  chorus  find  her  voice. 
Her  swaying,  gracious  form,  her  face  alight 
As  with  an  inner  flame  of  melody— 
These  seized  me  ;  seemed  the  white  embodiment 
Of  all  the  angelic  voices  richly  poured 
In  a  great  rushing  and  harmonious  flood. 
That  human  form,  all  beautiful  and  bright, 

42 


THE  UNKNOWN  SINGER  43 

Lived  the  pure,  conscious,  glorious  instrument 
Wherethrough  the  master  made  his  message 

felt- 
Conscious,  but  with  no  shallow  vanity, 
A  breathing  image  of  a  thought  in  sound, 
A  living  statue,  symbol  of  a  tone. 
That  which  she  sang  she  was  ;  and,  unaware, 
Made  music  visible  not  less  than  heard. 


THE  VOICE 

RICH  is  the  music  of  sweet  instruments,— 
The  separate  harp,  cornet,  oboe,  and  flute, 
The  deep-souled  viola,  the  'cello  grave, 
The  many-mooded,  singing  violin, 
The  infinite,  triumphing,  ivoried  clavier; 
And  when,  with  art  mysterious,  some  god 
Thrills  into  one  the  lone  and  various  tones, 
Then  is  no  hiding  passion  of  the  heart, 
No  sigh  of  evening  winds,  no  breath  of  dawn, 
No  hope  or  hate  of  man  that  is  not  told. 


THE   VOICE  45 

But  when  a  human  voice  leaps  from  that  surge 
'T  is  as  a  flower  that  bursts  from  th'  trembling 

earth; 

Something  more  wonderful  assails  the  soul, 
As,  with  exultant  cries,  up-curving,  swift, 
The  shrill  Walktire  clamor  against  the  sky, 
Or  pale  Briinhilde  moans  her  bitter  fate. 


WAGNER 

THIS  is  the  eternal  mystery  of  art  : 
He  told  the  secretest  secret  .of  his  heart,- 
How  many  mortals,  with  quick-flaming  brow, 
Whispered,  lo,  this  am  I,— and  that  art  thou. 


"  MOTHER  OF  HEROES  » 

SARAH  BLAKE  SHAW 

MOTHER    of   heroes,   she,— of    them    who 
gave 

Their  lives  to  lift  the  lowly,  free  the  slave. 
Her,  through   long  years,  two   master  passions 

bound  : 

Love  of  our  free  land ;  and  of  all  sweet  sound. 
'  T  was  praising  her  to  praise  this  land  of  grace  ; 
And  when  I  think  on  music— lo,  her  face! 


BEETHOVEN 

(VIENNA- 1900) 

I  CAME  to  a  great  city.     Palaces 
Rose  glittering,  mile  on  mile.    Here  dwells 
the  King, 

The  Emperor  and  King  ;  here  lived,  here  ruled 
How  many  mountainous  far-looming  fames  ! 
Here  is  the  crown  of  shadowy  Charlemagne. 
What  housing  of  what  glorious  dignities  ! 
Yet  in  a  narrow  street,  unfrequented, 
No  palace  near— one  name  upon  a  wall, 
And  all  these  majesties  seem  small  and  shrunk  ; 

48 


BEETHOVEN  49 

For  here  unto  the  bitter  end  abode 
He  who  from  pain  wrought  noble  joy  for  men, 
He  who  from  silence  gave  the  world  to  song  ; 
For  in  his  mind  an  awful  music  rose 
As  when,  in  darkness  of  the  under-seas, 
Currents  tremendous  over  currents  pour. 
He  heard  the  soundless  tone,  its  voice  he  was, 
And  he  of  vast  humanity  the  voice, 
And  his  the  empire  of  the  human  soul. 


THE  ANGER  OF  BEETHOVEN 

THIS  night  the  enchanting   musicians    ren 
dered  a  trio  of  Beethoven,— 

t 

Light  and  lovely,  or  solemn,  as  in  a  Tuscan  tower 

The  walls  with  gracious  tapestries  gleam,  and  the 
deep-cut  windows 

Give  on  landscapes  gigantic,  framing  the  four 
square  world,— 

When  sudden  the  music  turned  to  anger,  as 
nature's  murmur 

Sometimes  to  anger  turns,  speaking,  in  voice 
infuriate, 


THE  ANGER  OF  BEETHOVEN  51 

Cruel,    quick,  implacable  ;  inhuman,  savage,  re 
sistless,— 
And  I  thought  of  that  sensitive  spirit  flinging 

back  in  scorn  tempestuous, 

And  in   art   supreme,  immortal,  the    infamous 
arrows  of  fortune. 


MACDOWELL 

REJOICE  !  Rejoice  ! 
The  New  World  hath  a  voice  ; 
A  voice  of  tragedy  and  mirth, 
Sounding  clear  through  all  the  earth  ; 
A  voice  of  music,  tender  and  sublime, 
Kin  to  the  master-music  of  all  time. 

Here  ye,  and  know,— 
While  the  chords  throb  with  poignant  pause  and 

flow,— 
Of  the  New  World  the  mystic,  lyric  heart, 

52 


MACDOWELL  53 

Breathed  in  undaunted  art: 
Her  pomp  of  days,  her  glittering  nights  ; 
The  rich  surprise 
And  miracle  of  iridescent  skies  ; 
Her  lovely  lowlands  and  imperial  heights  ; 
Her  glooms  and  gladness ; 
Her  oceans  thundering  on  a  thousand  shores  ; 
Her  wild-wood  madness  ; 

Her  streams  adream  with  memory  that  deplores 
The  red  inhabitants  evanished  and  undone 
That  follow,  follow  to  far  lands  beyond  the  set 
ting  sun. 

And  echoes  one  may  hear  of  ancient  lores 
From  the  Old  World's  well-loved  shores,— 
Primal  loves,  and  quenchless  hates  ; 
Striving  lives,  and  conquering  fates ; 


54  MACDOWELL 

Elves  innocently  antic 

Or  wild-eyed,  frantic  ; 

Shadow-heroes,  passionate,  gigantic,— 

Sons  and  daughters  of  the  prime 

That  moved  the  mighty  bards  to  noble  rhyme. 

Rejoice  !    Rejoice  ! 
The  New  World  hath  new  music— and  a  voice  ! 


A  MOOD 

WORDS  praising  music,  what  are  they  but 
leaves 
Whirled    round  the  fountain  by  the  wind  that 

grieves. 

Frail  human  speech  falls  idly  as  the  snow 
On  the  red  lava's  flow,  — 

Still  pours  the  music  on,  all  passion  and  flame  ; 
As  music  passes,  that  which  music  came,— 
Ever  the  same,  with  message  never  the  same. 


55 


MUSIC   IN  SOLITUDE 

IN  this  valley  far  and  lonely 
Birds  sang  only, 
And  the  brook, 

And  the  rain  upon  the  leaves ; 
And  all  night  long  beneath  the  eaves 
(While  with  soft  breathings  slept  the  housed 

cattle) 

The  hived  bees 

Made  music  like  the  murmuring  seas  ; 
From  hchened  wall,  from  many  a  leafy  nook, 


MUSIC  IN  SOLITUDE  57 

The  chipmunk  sounded  shrill  his  tiny  rattle  ; 
Through  the  warm  day  boomed  low  the  droning 

flies, 

And  the  great  mountains  shook 
With  the  organs  of  the  skies. 

Dear  these  songs  unto  my  heart ; 
But  the  spirit  longs  for  art, 
Longs  for  music  that  is  born 
Of  the  human  soul  forlorn, 
Or  the  beating  heart  of  pleasure. 
Thou,  sweet  girl,  didst  bring  this  boon 
Without  stint  or  measure  ! 
Many  a  tune 

From  the  masters  of  all  time 
In  my  waiting  heart  made  rhyme. 


58  MUSIC  IN  SOLITUDE 

As  the  rain  on  parched  meadows. 
As  cool  shadows 
Falling  from  the  summer  sky, 
As  loved  memories  die, 
But  live  again  when  a  well-tuned  voice 
Makes  with  old  joy  the  grieved  heart  rejoice, 
So  came  once  more  with  thy  clear  touch 
The  melodies  I  love— 
Ah,  not  too  much, 

But  all  earth's  natural  songs  far,  far  above  ! 
For  they  are  nature  felt,  and  living, 
And  human,  and  impassioned  ; 
And  they  full  well  are  fashioned 
To  bring  to  sound  and  sense  the  eternal  striving, 
The  inner  soul  of  the  inexpressive  world, 
The  meaning  furled 


MUSIC  IN   SOLITUDE  59 

Deep  at  the  heart  of  all, 
The  thought  that  mortals  name  divine, 
Whereof  all  beauty  is  the  sign, 
That  comes— ah,  surely  comes— at  music's 
solemn  call. 


MUSIC  AT  TWILIGHT 

OH,  give  me  music  in  the  twilight  hour  ! 
Then,  skilled  musician!  thou  of  the  magic 
power, 

Summon  the  souls  of  masters  long  since  gone 
Who  through  thine  art  live  on  ! 

As  the  day  dies  I  would  once  more  respire 
The  passion  of  that  spirit  whose  keen  fire 
Flashes  and  flames  in  yearning  and  unrest 
And  never-ending  quest. 


MUSIC  AT  TWILIGHT  61 

Or  listen  to  the  quick,  electric  tones, 
Or  moods  of  majesty,  of  him  who  owns 
The  secret  of  the  thrill  that  shakes  the  earth 
And  moves  the  stars  in  mirth. 


And  I  would  walk  the  shore  of  sound  with  him 
Whose  voice  was  as  the  voice  of  cherubim: 
Musician  most  authentic  and  sublime 
Of  all  the  sons  of  time. 


Bring  their  deep  joys,  the  breath  of  solitudes 
Dear  dreams  and  longings,  and  high,  hero  moods; 
Aye,  bring  me  their  melodious  despairs 
To  die  in  twilight  airs. 


62  MUSIC  AT  TWILIGHT 

For,  given  a  rhythmic  voice,  re-uttered  so, 
Sorrow  itself  is  lost  in  the  large  flow 
Of  nature  ;  and  of  life  is  made  such  part 
As  doth  enrich  the  heart ; 

And  on  the  tide  of  music,  to  my  soul 
Shall  enter  beauty's  solace,— life  be  whole, 
Not  broken  by  chords  discordant,  but  most  sweet, 
In  sequent  tones  complete. 


II 

Great  is  the  true  interpreter,  for  like 
No  other  art,  two  sentient  souls  must  strike 
The  spark  of  music  that  in  blackness  lies 
'Mid  silent  harmonies, 


MUSIC  AT  TWILIGHT  63 

Till,  at  a  cunning  touch,  the  long-lost  theme 
Newly  imagined,  and  new-born  in  dream, 
Clothed  gloriously  in  garment  of  sweet  sound 
Wakes  from  its  darkened  swound. 

So  would  I  ask,  Musician  !   of  thy  grace 
That  thou  would'st  bless  and  sanctify  the  place 
With  august  harmonies,  well-loved  of  old  ;— 
But  from  thy  manifold 

Miraculous  memory  fail  not  of  thine  own 

\. 

Imaginings  enraptured  of  pure  tone, 
That  I  may  nearer  draw  to  music's  shrine, 
And  mystery  divine. 


MUSIC  IN  MOONLIGHT 

WAS  ever  music  lovelier  than  to-night ! 
'T  was  Schumann's  Song  of  Moonlight ; 
o'er  the  vale 

The  new  moon  lingered  near  the  western  hills  ; 
The  hearth-fire  glimmered  low  ;  but   melting 

tones 

Blotted  all  else  from  memory  and  thought, 
And  all  the  world  was  music.    Wondrous  hour  ! 
Then  sank  anew  into  our  tranced  hearts 

64 


MUSIC  IN  MOONLIGHT  65 

One  secret  and  deep  lesson  of  sweet  sound— 
The  loveliness  that  from  unloveliness 
Out-springs,  flooding  the  soul  with  poignant  joy, 
As  the  harmonious  chords  to  harsh  succeed, 
And  the  rapt  spirit  climbs  through  pain  to  bliss : 
Eternal  question,  answer  infinite  ; 
As  day  to  night  replies  ;  as  light  to  shade  ; 
As  summer  to  rough  winter  ;  death  to  life,— 
Death  not  a  closing,  but  an  opening  door; 
A  deepened  life,  a  prophecy  fulfilled. 

Not  in  the  very  present  comes  reply 
But  in  the  flow  of  time.    Should  the  song  cease 
Too  soon  ;  ere  yet  the  rooted  answer  blooms, 
Lo,  what  a  pang  of  loss  and  dissonance  ! 
But  time,  with  the  resolving  and  intended  tone 
Heals  all,  and  makes  all  beautiful  and  right. 


66  MUSIC  IN  MOONLIGHT 

Even  so  our  mortal  music-makers  frame 
Their  messages  melodious  to  men  ; 
Even  so  the  Eterne  his  mighty  harmonies 
Fashions,  supreme,  of  life,  and  fate,  and  time. 


MUSIC  IN  DARKNESS 

i 

A  the  dim  end  of  day 
I  heard  the  great  musician  play  : 
Saw  her  white  hands  now  slow,  now  swiftly  pass  ; 
Where  gleamed  the  polished  wood,  as  in  a  glass, 
The  shadow  hands  repeating  every  motion. 
Then  did  I  voyage  forth  on  music's  ocean, 
Visiting  many  a  sad  or  joyful  shore, 
Where  storming  breakers  roar, 
Or  singing  birds  made  music  so  intense,— 

C^7 


68  MUSIC  IN  DARKNESS 

So  intimate  of  happiness  or  sorrow,— 
I  scarce  could  courage  borrow 
To    hear   those    strains ;    well-nigh    I   hurried 

thence 

To  escape  the  intolerable  weight 
That  on  my  spirit  fell  when  sobbed  the  music  : 

late,  too  late,  too  late, 
While  slow  withdrew  the  light 
And,  on  the  lyric  tide,  came  in  the  night. 


II 

So  grew  the  dark,  enshrouding  all  the  room 
In  a  melodious  gloom, 
Her  face  growing  viewless  ;  line  by  line 
That  swaying  form  did  momently  decline 


MUSIC  IN  DARKNESS  69 

And  was  in  darkness  lost. 
Then  white  hands  ghostly  turned,  though  still 

they  tost 
From  tone  to  tone  ;  pauseless  and  sure  as  if  in 

perfect  light ; 

With  blind,  instinctive,  most  miraculous  sight, 
On,  on  they  sounded  in  that  world  of  night. 

Ill 

Ah,  dearest  one  !  was  this  thy  thought,  as  mine, 

As  still  the  music  stayed  ? 

So  shall  the  loved  ones  fade,— 

Feature  by  feature,  line  on  lovely  line  ; 

For  all  our  love,  alas, 

From  twilight  into  darkness  shall  they  pass  ! 


70  MUSIC  IN  DARKNESS 

We  in  that  dark  shall  see  them  never  more, 
But  from  our  spirits  they  shall  not  be  banished,  — 
For  on  and  on  shall  the  sweet  music  pour 
That  was  the  soul  of  them,  the  loved,  the  van 
ished  ; 

And  we,  who  listen,  shall  not  lose  them  quite 
In  that  mysterious  night." 


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